


Something Like Tremors At The Back of The Throat

by thisiswhatthewatergaveme



Series: i couldn't participate in sbweek so i made this shitty collection instead [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bottom Sam Wilson, Emotional Sex, Feelings, Firsts, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Miscommunication, Porn With Plot, bucky catches feelings, i don't want to tag all of the sex scenes it's LONG assume they do it ALL, it's a sad sexy time, sex scenes like a dirty movie where it doesn't COUNT as porn because all the ANGLES are ARTY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:56:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7656445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswhatthewatergaveme/pseuds/thisiswhatthewatergaveme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam pulls back just to ask, a little breathless, “You still good with this? Just-- this?”</p>
<p>Bucky says, “Absolutely,” without thinking about it, and then, “Yes,” after he has.</p>
<p>Bucky Barnes is a goddamn liar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Like Tremors At The Back of The Throat

**Author's Note:**

> the working title for this was 'bucky gets rekt' 
> 
> prompt was firsts! FOR DAY 2 OF WEEK 2 OF SBWEEK 2016 
> 
> there's a lot of 'em here enjoy pals

Mud is caked all along the seams of Sam’s pants. He looks tired. Bucky notices, he thinks, because he’s never seen Sam look so... still. He’s sucking down his beer with his eyes half closed, and he sets it down heavier and heavier, even as the glass gets lighter.

 

“You o--” Bucky, who, he realizes, hasn’t spoken in hours, has to clear his throat out and try again. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah, man,” Sam says, by rote. He sniffs and looks over at Bucky. Quirks one eyebrow up. “Winding down, you know how it is.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He doesn’t know what else to say. He drinks his own beer and tries to pretend like Sam isn’t the only reason he’s come out.

 

* * *

 

The mission was simple, comparatively. Investigate sightings of a high-ranking HYDRA official. Take him in, if possible. Terminate him, Bucky told himself, if necessary. Call in backup if needed. Falcon would be air support, Soldier infiltration.

 

It went well until it didn’t, the way things usually do.

 

* * *

 

“Right,” Sam says, getting up with a yawn. “I want to head back to the hotel, so that I crash in a bed and not onto the floor. You heading back now?”

 

“Yes,” Bucky says immediately, and downs the rest of his drink in one long, limber swallow. He doesn’t miss the way Sam’s tired eyes track the movement. Doesn’t miss it. Doesn’t know what to do with it.

 

* * *

 

Yes to the HYDRA hotbed. No to the official. But the sheer amount of activity was enough of a sign that they should go in. Bucky said so to Sam. Sam declined.

 

Sam will later write in his report that he lost visibility as soon as it started raining. Bucky will suggest that it was, instead, Sam’s willingness to throw himself into a fight that he was ill equipped to handle is to blame for his involvement.

 

They’re fighting HYDRA in a field as the building behind them self destructs, and Bucky enters some sort of frenzy-- his arms, legs, and teeth move independently of the rest of him. His brain processes everything like the world is in slow motion. He sees Sam, overpowered, and takes out two of his assailants with a well timed bullet, not missing his opening to gift his own attackers with a fist to the face and a metal elbow to a jaw.

Sam getting knuckles to the soft part of his cheek is his own fault.

 

Bucky takes careful note of that later.

 

* * *

 

They sleep in beds right next to each other. Sam’s breathing is even and slow. It hitches, sometimes. His legs twitch. Once, he says something-- it’s not a real word, but it sounds like it’s supposed to be. He might as well be speaking in tongues.

 

Bucky... dozes.

* * *

 

When they get back to base the next day, their big, nondescript house in the middle of a prairie, no witnesses for miles, they go their separate ways, the way they should. Bucky can’t help but feel like _he’s_ the one that’s supposed to feel guilty. He knows, realistically, that Sam made his own choices. Still-- what was destroyed before he could reach it? What would he never know?

 

And him and Sam had been good, too. Had set off on the mission all smiles. He wishes--

* * *

 

“The rain meant that not nearly enough was destroyed with their emergency protocols,” Maria Hill says over the phone. It’s old, analog, so they all have to cluster in closer than they’d like, probably. Sam’s shoulder presses up against Bucky’s right. Bucky leans a little tighter in than he probably needs to.

 

“Meaning?” Steve asks.

 

“Meaning I’m sending a friend over with some information you might find interesting, Captain,” Hill says.

 

“Not a Captain,” Steve says lightly, but he looks at Bucky when he says it, and then looks away.

 

Bucky doesn’t know what to do with it.

* * *

 

He takes a day, two days, four. Does yoga. Runs around the grounds until he’s worn a ridiculous track into the heavy yellowing grass. He grounds himself. And, every day, there’s Sam.

 

Sam runs after him or before him, but never with him. Sam high-fives him on the way in or out the door, even though he’s usually half-awake, and grins at him, calls him everything from Vanilla Ice to Frozone, and every time Bucky thinks he’s run out of epithets, he surprises him.

 

Sam calls him downstairs for dinner sometimes, when he forgets to leave his room.

Sam waits for him to come back to himself before confronting him about the mission.

 

“If we’re there together, we work together,” he says.

“I know that,” Bucky snaps back, because he does, but it’s just-- “If I make a dangerous call, sometimes that has to just be on me.”

“The fuck did I just say,” Sam sighs, and rubs at the quickly developing crease between his eyebrows, and starts all over again.

 

Sam wants them to be a _team_.

 

But Steve and Sam are a team. Are a _real_ team. They watch movies together some nights, they run together without talking about it, they start and stop conversations without worrying that-- without worrying.

 

Bucky tries to talk to Sam sometimes, over breakfast. Sam always looks so surprised.

* * *

 

Bucky knocks on the wall to give Sam some warning. A chance, maybe, to compose himself before--

No. They’re friends, right? Coworkers, at least. This is fine.

Bucky coughs into his elbow. Sam turns around.

 

“Hey. You good?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Sorry I’ve been...”

“Don’t be. You had a bad week,” Sam says. He holds up a controller, and Bucky realizes that what he’d thought was a movie is a video game, instead. “You wanna join in?” Sam smiles at him.

“Hell yeah,” Bucky says, and grins back.

 

Sam is very good at winning, and does it too much, Bucky thinks, so, of course, things turn to sabotage. Bucky pulls Sam’s sweatshirt hood over his eyes and Sam kicks the controller out of Bucky’s hands and Bucky grabs Sam’s controller and flings it towards the door.

 

“No!” Sam shouts, and flings himself after it, which makes _no sense_ , because he ends up half in Bucky’s lap and Bucky is laughing so hard he’s having trouble breathing.

 

“Uh,” someone says from the door. “I can come back later?”

 

Sam settles himself more firmly on top of Bucky and reaches his arm out. “Hi, Clint,” he says impatiently, and wiggles his fingers. Clint looks at Bucky, who shrugs. He automatically settles his hands on Sam’s thighs to brace him when he leans over the rest of the way snatch his controller back.

When Sam moves to get off of him, he shoves him away playfully. Still-- he’s a little colder, all over. Everywhere Sam touched.

* * *

 

It turns out that Clint’s been working recon. Hill gave him a list-- aliases and last known sightings for a sizeable list of HYDRA higher ups. Clint has solid info on seven out of ten of them.

 

One of them is a state away.

 

Bucky is ten minutes and a thousand miles away from video games on a couch. He is so, so tired.

* * *

 

The mission is clean. The HYDRA official is living with her family in a condo in a small city, and she’s the one who answers the door.

She says, “Please.”

Steve says, “We need you to come with us.”

Her partner, from behind her, says, “Honey, who is it?” and opens the door wide enough for the three of them to step around it.

 

Steve is the one who gets to say, “Your wife has been working for HYDRA,” but Bucky gets to see her family pull away from her, gets to see her eyes close, gets to see her defeated.

 

He remembers her, is the thing. He knows, logically, that the family in front of him most likely hasn’t been subjected to her favored brand of cruelty, knows that it would be cruel of him, probably, to elaborate for them exactly what kind of person their wife and mother is. Still-- his teeth grind like the words are desperate to get out.

 

He doesn’t realize that Sam _sees_ that.

 

They leave with her in handcuffs. She doesn’t say a word on the drive to the airport. They hand her off to Hill on the tarmac. Clint goes with them-- “To keep an eye on things, just in case. I’ll be back in a day or two for the next name on the list.”-- and the three of them, Sam, Bucky, and Steve, head back home.

 

Sam, from the backseat, leans forward. “Hey,” he says, mostly the Bucky. “You wanna stop for some food first?”

They’re at a stoplight, so of course Steve ends up looking at him too.

“Fine,” he says, mostly to get both of them to stop _looking_ at him like that.

 

It’s not until they’re pulling into the pizza place that he realizes: he’s fine. He’s not... going anywhere else. He’s a little annoyed, but that’s because he was expecting a fight, and got wide, panicked eyes instead, and a woman more comfortable with giving herself up that letting her children see violence. He doesn’t feel bad for her. He doesn’t feel bad for himself. He feels satisfied.

 

He tosses red pepper on Steve’s slice when he isn’t looking, and his response gets Sam laughing hard enough that he gives him a high five.

 

Steve glares at him with red, watering eyes, but there’s a smile there, hidden under the scowl. Bucky grins at him.

* * *

 

“You’re in a better place than I thought you would be,” Sam says when they get home. Steve’s already gone up to bed, but Sam’s putting a kettle on, so Bucky figures he might as well hang out.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and shrugs. “I feel like I stored up a bunch of energy for nothing, to be honest. Twitchy, but. Mostly I just feel bad for the family. I guess you don’t always know who you’re getting into bed with.” Sam laughs.

 

“True enough. You wanna watch a movie?”

 

The thing about Sam is, he’s comfortable. He can fill a silence, or maintain one, but it doesn’t feel like he’s pushing for either direction. Bucky likes sitting with him, and talking to him, and spending time around him, because it doesn’t feel like he needs a cheat sheet or an emergency button. It feels safe to relax. So he says, “Only if I get to pick it,” and laughs when Sam rolls his eyes and steals both of the remotes for himself.

 

The movie is funny and romantic and goes on _forever_ , so Bucky can’t be blamed when he starts to doze off, and the fact that they’re sitting close enough together that he wakes up, surprised, on Sam’s shoulder, is entirely irrelevant.

 

Except for how it happens twice.

 

On the second time, he sits up to say sorry to find Sam looking at him, his eyes heavy, a smile at the edge of his lips. They’re very, very close together.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky says anyway, and realizes that his hands are braced around Sam’s ribs, that Sam is what’s holding him up, that he had to press up against him to sit up enough for this. “Uh.”

 

“You planning on sleeping on me all night?”

 

“What’s my alternative?” Bucky jokes. Sam’s eyes float down his face, stop at his mouth, and keep going, until they snap back up. He tips his head, just a touch. His smile is starting to look like a dare.

 

“You can go to bed,” Sam says, and his voice is so low that Bucky can feel it vibrate against his palms.

“You can come with me,” Bucky says, and it’s all downhill from there.   

* * *

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Bucky gasps, when Sam has him up against the door, Sam’s mouth buried against his neck. And then, “ _Oh, I-- oh_!” when Sam grinds up against him hard enough that he sees stars. He laughs when he gets his vision back, short and sharp.

 

Sam pulls back just to ask, a little breathless, “You still good with this? Just-- this?”

 

Bucky says, “Absolutely,” without thinking about it, and then, “ _Yes_ ,” after he has. “I want you. I want-- can you--” He is suddenly, achingly aware that he hasn’t, in attainable memory, ever asked for what he wants, like this. He slings one of his legs around Sam’s hips and pulls him in tighter. He kisses him, tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth. When Sam groans, he feels it all over.

 

“Bed,” Bucky says, and kisses him again. “We should--” He kisses him again. It turns out he’s very bad at self-control. At least Sam has a little more focus. He pulls away enough to spin them towards the bed, and Bucky falls first, laughing, bouncing up into Sam when the mattress throws him back at him. And then Bucky isn’t laughing anymore, because Sam is opening him up with his hands and his mouth and he thinks that maybe, _maybe_ this is the universe forgiving him. Sam slides against him, says, “Yeah?” and all Bucky can do is nod because he isn’t sure that whatever comes out of his mouth right then will count as a word.

 

Having Sam inside of him is a revelation. Sam rolls his hips forward and Bucky arches into it, muffling his cries against Sam’s lips, Sam’s shoulder, everywhere he can reach.

 

“ _Fuck_ , Sam, I’m--”

 

He’s never been taken so far out of his head. He bucks his hips up to meet Sam’s, and Sam is whispering something to him that makes his whole body flush even hotter and then he’s coming, Sam right behind him, and everything is _good_.

 

They stay there like that, for a moment, their breathing fast. Bucky can’t help it-- he nuzzles up a little bit, presses kisses all down Sam’s jaw, down his neck. It must tickle, because the next thing he knows Sam is falling down next to him with a sigh and a laugh, and Bucky rolls towards him, the mess be damned.

 

“Hi,” he says, and Sam honest to god _giggles_. And Bucky, because he’s allowed, rolls closer and kisses him.

 

He pulls back and Sam presses their foreheads together, his eyes closed. Sam sighs again, but this time, it sounds wrong.

 

“I’m trying to decide if I can feasibly move right now.”

“Why?” Bucky challenges. And Sam--

 

Sam pulls away. He rolls off of the bed and finds his underwear first, tugging it up before he speaks again.

 

“Because, good as this was, I don’t want to give Steve the wrong idea-- and whoever else ends up in this house tomorrow,” he adds with a snort, pulling his pants on.

 

And Bucky is-- hm. Bucky is. Fine.

 

“Right,” he says, and tugs the sheet up over himself.

 

Sam is dressed and is standing over his bed and tugs at Bucky’s hair with a smile. “Sweet dreams, huh?”

 

Bucky bats his hand away. “Get out of here, Wilson.”

 

But the problem is, he does.

* * *

 

Bucky takes his time showering in the morning. Feels out all those aches and pains, thinks long and hard about whether or not he wants to cover up the bite mark between his neck and shoulder. He presses against it, anyway.

 

What was he expecting? Really? Under the water, he can admit to himself that he wasn’t really expecting anything-- _any_ of this-- so he’s just coming up a little short, as far as processing it goes. And Sam is... Sam is all bright energy. He’s got a seductive personality.

 

“Right,” Bucky says to himself, out loud, so he doesn’t miss it. “ _That’s_ what seduced you.”

 

He believes that Sam will still roughhouse with him and play video games with him and laugh at his jokes. He’s choosing to believe that’s enough.

 

When he gets downstairs, Clint is already there, staring into the coffeepot like he can’t remember which side the caffeine comes out of. Sam’s there with him, watching the process with remarkably alert curiosity-- helped, Bucky’s sure, by the mug already in his hand.

 

“Hi, Barnes,” Clint says glumly.

 

When Sam catches sight of him, he smiles, and lifts his mug in salute. He’s-- he’s-- oh. God. Bucky resolves not to look at him too closely for the rest of the day.

“You get an early start?” he asks Clint, who nods sadly. Bucky pulls the pot from his hands and sets up a new pot to brew, steering Clint towards a barstool with both hands. “You wanna lie down instead, actually?”

 

“No,” Clint groans, folding his arms under his head and resting it against the counter. “This is fine.”

 

“Is Steve out for a run?” Bucky doesn’t know why he’s asking Clint. Clint might actually have fallen asleep.

 

“Shower, actually,” Sam answers, but Bucky’s _still_ looking at Clint.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Hey,” Sam says, and, huh, when did he get that close? He’s looking at Bucky from eye to eye and the amount of _concern_ Bucky can see makes him want to scream. “You okay?”

 

And Bucky makes himself smile. “As soon as I get some of that coffee in me, I will be,” he says. He doesn’t say, _because I didn’t really sleep last night_. It’s irrelevant.

* * *

 

When Steve gets downstairs, they make plans for the next name on the list. This one’s in Nevada, and they’re debating the merits of air versus road travel when Bucky looks up from the thread he’s been playing with at the edge of his sleeve.

 

Sam’s looking at him. When he gets caught, he starts to smile. And then he looks away and joins in on Steve and Clint’s conversation.

 

Sam, when he’s trying to figure something out, fiddles with his lower lip, not with his teeth, but his fingers. Pinches at it lightly. Forces it into a small, unconscious pout.

 

It takes Bucky ages to realize that he’s the one staring, now.

* * *

 

Thank god for the firefight.

 

It’s one guy, but he’s had a heads up-- maybe from the first woman, maybe from someone higher up. There are traps on his property and steel-reinforced doors to his house. Still-- when Bucky shoots him in the shoulder, he goes down, easy as anything. Bucky doesn’t shoot again, but the energy that might’ve gone into that curdles in his shoulder, makes his voice rough and uneven when he says, into his comm, “We’ve got him. Single gunshot wound to the shoulder. Time for extraction.”

 

Bucky recognizes him, too. But this one reacts. This one spits at his boots a soon as he comes close enough.

 

“Russian dog,” he says. There’s a little bit of red in his saliva.

 

“American, actually,” Bucky says, and kicks him in the face. There’s a lot more red, after that.

* * *

 

They’re flown, private, all the way back home. This time, they’re given 48-hours rest. Bucky should be grateful.

 

He’s not.

 

Mandated rest means no useful way to let off steam. Means running in circles for hours, maybe sparring, if he’s lucky. Means getting trapped on the couch with Sam, again, and knowing how it could go, and knowing how it won’t.

 

“Shouldn’t we get through the list as quickly as possible?” he demands, as soon as they land. “If they’re getting warnings, how do we know no one’ll take off? Start over again somewhere else?”

 

“Look,” Steve says, “Maria said to tell you--”

 

“But god forbid she talk to me herself--”

 

“To _tell_ you that this isn’t because she thinks we need a break, or out of some sort of punishment. She said we’ll require a package for the rest, and we won’t have that until Thursday. So you’re just gonna have to--”

 

“Stew in my own juices,” Bucky laments. He’s being melodramatic-- really, Steve’s explanation helped-- but Sam’s delirious cackle in response makes it worth Steve’s eyeroll.

 

“Go take a shower,” Sam wheezes, fanning the air in front of him. “Nobody needs you stewing in anything.”

“I’m going,” Bucky sniffs, “but not because either of you told me to.” When he leaves, he can still hear Sam chuckling.

 

He just barely catches Steve saying, “You encourage this,” exasperated as ever, but Sam says, “I do, don’t I,” like he’s proud of it.

 

When he gets back downstairs, it’s just Sam again. It feels like deja-vu, only Sam’s stretching out on the floor instead of sitting on the couch, one knee tucked up to his chest and his head turned to the side.

 

Bucky’s careful to make enough noise not to be a surprise on his way into the kitchen, and fills up a cup with water from the tap, like he has a reason to be downstairs. Like he wasn’t just looking for company. Like he wasn’t just looking for--

 

“Hey,” Sam says, and Bucky has to lean over the counter to get a good look at him. “You looking forward to your mini-vacation?”

 

“No,” Bucky says bluntly. “I don’t like having nothing to do.”

 

“I could think of some things for you to do,” Sam says, cheeky. Heat rises from Bucky’s cheeks up to his eyes.

 

“Like what,” he says, and walks around the counter. Sam’s let his leg down, and they’re spread out, a little, casually. His shorts are tucked up a little high. He looks like he’s in _repose_ , like a sluttier version of a fancy french painting.

 

Bucky wants to hit himself.

 

“I don’t know,” Sam says, and grins, bright enough for it to almost be bashful, if he did that sort of thing. “Why don’t you tell me?”

 

Bucky, to buy himself time, drinks his tall glass of water in a handful of desperate, degenerate gulps.

 

“Unless-- sorry, unless it was just a one-time thing for you,” Sam says, and he’s sitting up, straightening out his shorts, rubbing at the back of his hair. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot like, that, I can--”

 

Bucky is on the floor in a moment, crawling over Sam and pressing him back towards the ground with his body, parting Sam’s legs with his hips.

 

“Or that,” Sam says happily, and leans up when Bucky kisses him. “Listen,” Sam says, dodging Bucky’s lips so that they land on his jaw instead; Bucky doesn’t mind. He bites lightly at the skin there while Sam talks, thrills at the feeling of the short shorn hair of his beard against the inside of his lip. “Not that I’m adverse to you fucking me here, but don’t you think it’d be more comfortable--”

 

Bucky pulls back, blood rushing, internally, to too many places at once for him to keep track.

 

“My room or yours?” he breathes, and Sam’s smile is so bright.

* * *

 

It is, like the first time, Bucky’s room and Sam’s equipment. Only this time, Sam is straddling his waist, leaning up against his folded legs, his hand doing something that Bucky can’t see but is very, very sure, from the soft sighs he keeps making, is working for him.

 

“Why do you get to do all the work?” Bucky whines, but it’s a weak gesture, because even though Sam’s rolling his eyes, Bucky still has a hand around himself, desperate, but growing less confident in his ability, to last.

 

“I didn’t say,” Sam says, in between those little huffs, “that you wouldn’t have anything to do.”

 

And then he’s sliding down onto Bucky, and Bucky could _die_ and he wouldn’t notice, not with how Sam gasps when he rolls up into him, not with how Sam falls forward and holds onto his shoulders, laughs when Bucky starts moving faster.

 

“I was--” Sam gasps, “I was-- supposed to-- do most of this, you-- _oh_ , you impatient _dick_.”

 

“You really want me to stop?” Bucky teases, and pushes him back, wrapping his hands around Sam’s for him to have something to press against. “How about you show me what you’ve got, sweetheart?”

 

“Fuck you,” Sam says, but the way he _moves._ Bucky’s got a lamp on and nothing else, and Sam’s skin is dewy and bouncing off gold, and when Bucky gets a hand around him he _whimpers_.

 

It’s not Bucky’s fault that he needs him closer. And anyway, Sam doesn’t protest when he flips him over, pulls one of Sam’s legs over his shoulder just to get in a little deeper.

 

“There,” he says, because maybe Sam’s right, maybe he _is_ a dick, “Isn’t that better?” And then he pulls Sam’s hips up at the same time as he thrusts his forward, once, twice--

 

Sam opens his mouth to argue, but then he’s coming, instead, with a shout, and Bucky kisses him, has to close his eyes before he falls apart, because now he knows Sam like this, too, and he feels like every part of himself is on fire and new.

 

Sam presses a kiss to his neck when he turns his face away, overwhelmed and oversensitive, and that’s how he comes.

 

It might be the beginning of the end, but _god_ , he’ll remember this as worth it.

 

“You should stay here,” he says, when his breathing has settled. “Just for a little bit.” He’s still inside of him, still too close. Shouldn’t be speaking, yet. Not like this.

 

“No,” Sam says, but he’s smiling. One hand comes up to card through Bucky’s hair and push it out of his face. It feels infernal. “I was, uh. A little louder than I should’ve been.” Bucky does not have the _words_ to disagree the way he wants to disagree. “I’m not about to put fuel on that fire. And I am _not_ about to get caught with my pants down.”

 

“Hm,” Bucky says. He pulls out, and then down, until he’s settled between Sam’s legs. And then he pushes them up and apart, his hands locked around Sam’s ankles.

 

“What--!”

 

“You don’t want to get caught,” Bucky says, and he’s sure he sounds perfectly reasonable. “So I bet you’re gonna wanna stay _real_ quiet.”

 

“I,” Sam says, and his mouth falls open. Bucky gets this feeling that, if he could see it, Sam’s face would be a little bit red. Bucky sticks his tongue out at him, grins, and then he sticks his tongue somewhere else.

 

He gets him to stay for one more hour. When Sam leaves, he looks a little dazed. He walks like he’s drunk on whatever Bucky’s done to him.

 

He still _leaves_. But at least Bucky’s making it worth it.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he passes Sam in the doorway. They exchange their automatic high-fives when he goes out for a run.

 

There’s a red mark right under Sam’s ear, at the knot of his jaw, and that wakes Bucky up more than the run ever could.

 

Later, he finds them playing video games. Steve is losing, which he would’ve expected. He doesn’t really expect Sam to be sitting in Steve’s lap. It sends an uncomfortable torrent of cold through his stomach until he realizes that it’s Sam’s knees that are over Steve’s lap, and not the rest of him-- sabotage, he recognizes, when Sam jostles his leg up right before Steve’s avatar tries to make a sharp turn.

 

“Come _on_!” Steve cries out.

 

“If you can’t stay in the game...” Sam says ominously, and doesn’t budge when Steve tries to shove his legs off.

 

Bucky sits on the other end of the couch with a book, and tries to enjoy the company for what it is.

 

Half an hour in, Sam barks out a laugh, and keels over. His head ends up on Bucky’s thigh, and Bucky freezes. He looks down. Sam blinks up at him.

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, and Bucky things horrible, unsexy thoughts to make sure _nothing_ is behaving the wrong way, “but you’re a lot softer than you look. I was expecting uncomfortable muscle thighs of steel.” He points, unsubtly, to Steve.

 

“I have great thighs!” Steve says hotly. “And if you played fair, I’d have a great score, too.”

 

Sam turns towards Steve and the screen, but keeps his head in Bucky’s lap. Bucky doesn’t know what to do with this.

 

“Much like the game of thighs, Steven,” Sam says, his voice somber, “You... have... _lost_ , _yes_!” He laughs again, mean and hysteric, and Steve gives a bellow of outrage.

 

Bucky goes back to his book. One hand finds its way to the back of Sam’s head, and scritches through the hair at the back of his neck. Sam nuzzles his face, for a moment, into Bucky’s thigh.

 

He figures it’s okay.

* * *

 

That night, Bucky takes off his arm, and Sam holds him up and _wrecks_ him, against a wall, until he’s coming so hard that he can’t really remember what it’s like to breathe, what it’s like not to feel _seismic_.

 

“Told you I could do it,” Sam mutters, and Bucky laughs, and hooks his heels under Sam’s ass, urging him forward until he finishes with a groan.

 

When Sam lets him down, they make out against the wall until Sam says like he needs to go.

 

“One day,” Bucky says, because he’s feeling brave, “We’ll be the only two here. Then what'll your excuse be?”

 

Sam says, “I’ll let you know when I think of it,” and winks, and leaves.

 

Bucky’s legs, when he gets into bed, are still shaking.

* * *

 

Day two is a lot like day one, only Sam bends him over the bed and eats him out until he’s begging for it. But really, Bucky thinks, half delirious and riding Sam like life and livelihood depend on it, with Sam, it doesn’t take much.

* * *

 

When Natasha shows up on day three, everybody’s ready for _something._

 

“So you’re the mysterious package,” Steve says, and hugs her. Bucky can’t help but smile when he sees how Nat leans into it, a little uncomfortable, her brow furrowed, even as she smiles.

 

“Yeah, well, it took me a while to get here.”

 

“Still fighting the good fight, gorgeous?” Sam says, and with him, Bucky notices, with _out_ jealousy, of course, she bends a little easier.

 

“As good as I can,” she says, and turns to Bucky, who is not ready for this.

 

“Uh,” he says, “hi,” and holds out his hand. Natasha smiles with half her mouth. Her eyes dance.

 

“Remember me now?” she asks.

 

“Yeah,” he says, and swallows. “Sorry.”

 

“And with _that_ anticlimax,” Natasha says, turning back to the other two. “Our ride’s waiting. Wheels up in ten.” And then she’s gone, a breeze sweeping through the room on her heels.

 

“Does she know I love her?” Sam says, smiling dreamily. It’s an act, Bucky _knows_ it’s an act, knows it’s for show, because he said the same thing about a cartoon character last week, but-- but Natasha is here and present and would probably love Sam back, if he meant it, and Bucky can’t laugh along, like he did last week, because he feels like he’s about to throw up.

 

So he shoves it away and goes upstairs and packs a bag. The wheels go up in ten. In a few more hours, they’re landing in Canada.

Natasha says, “Watch out for moose,” and nudges him with her shoulder. There’s that smile again. He thinks it might mean that she’s trying. He grins at her. For himself, he’s finding that he has to try a little harder.

 

* * *

 

Natasha’s debrief is thorough, her fighting is impeccable, and her timing keeps a bullet from going through the side of Sam’s head. Thanks to her, they take out a facility, and bring in five guys, three of whom were the ones Clint couldn’t find on his own. The other surprise is Maria meeting them on-site, after everything is over. She personally oversees a procession of HYDRA agents led into vans and the top five led onto a ship-- all shackled, all carefully overseen.

 

“Do you want one of us per transport, just in case?” Steve asks. Bucky, for the first time, hopes for a no. He’s tired. He wasn’t expecting to be, but he’s _tired_.

 

“No,” she says. “Everything is secure. You guys burned through that list pretty quick.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Natasha says in passing, on her way to deliver the last agent.

 

Bucky decides that he likes her, and tries out a smile.

 

“I had Clint pick up one of them, and I grabbed one myself. It looks like these guys were the big brass, and the others on the list worked mostly administration, with only occasional fieldwork.” Bucky doesn’t say that he knows what their administration looks like, what it feels like; that it isn’t paperwork and papercuts. “They’ve got information, but they shouldn’t be heavily guarded or hard to get to. It should be a milk run for you guys to pick up the last one.”

 

Steve claps him on the shoulder and squeezes. When Bucky looks over at him, he’s smiling. He looks proud. Bucky tries to mimic it. He has a feeling that he might just look a little sad.

* * *

Sam knocks on his door. In retrospect, Bucky should’ve noticed-- Sam’s the one with the adrenaline bleeding all over the place. Sam’s the one who started this. Bucky? He’s just the _enabler_.

 

“What?” he groans into his pillow. Sam must take that as an invitation, because the next thing he knows, there’s another weight on his bed, dropping hard enough to shake it. He groans again, and says, starting to turn towards him, “I am _way_ too tired to get it up, so if you’re looking for a _hrmp_ \--” He slams his lips together.

 

It’s Steve on the other side of his bed, looking at him with a wrinkled nose and a laugh already starting.

 

“Not quite,” Steve says, “but good to know you’re open to that.”

 

“In your dreams, beefcake,” Bucky deadpans, and ducks in outrage when Steve reaches down to ruffle his hair.

 

“You’re in bed early,” he says, once Bucky’s settled down beside him. They’re facing each other like kids at a slumber party, and it should bring back memories, but Bucky’s not pushing his brain, it’s just-- nice.

 

“Yeah,” he says, and brings a hand up to cover his yawn. “It’s just-- it’s more tiring than I expected, hunting down ghosts.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, and there’s almost a wicked edge to the smile that’s starting, “I get the feeling.”

 

“Shut up,” Bucky snorts, kicking out at him.

 

“Well, listen,” Steve says, serious again. He catches Bucky’s feet between his ankles and doesn’t let go. “I was thinking that, since it’s just one person left, I can do it myself. I can call in Clint or Natasha, we can do it quiet.” Bucky frowns.

 

“I’m not-- I’m not _incapable_ of doing this. I’ve been fine, on every mission! That one with Sam, that was a fluke, I--”

 

“You’re good at what you do,” Steve cuts off. “I’m not taking this from you, Buck. I’m trying to give you something. Just-- take this as the end of it. Start planning what comes next.”

 

Bucky grumbles into his comforter. He doesn’t _hate_ the idea, as such. It just--

 

“It feels unfinished, this way.”

 

“It might always,” Steve says.

 

They lie there together for a while, and Bucky thinks, a bit absurdly, that _Steve_ would probably stay the night.

 

As if reading his mind, Steve asks, “What happened, that time with Sam, anyway?”

 

Bucky flounders for a moment, until he remembers-- “The, uh, the mission?”

 

“Yes,” Steve says, drags out the word like Bucky’s got a problem. “Your write-up was crap. It was mostly you arguing every point Sam wrote about in his.”

 

“It wasn’t a big deal,” he says petulantly. “I ran out of long-range ammo, so I got close enough to grab a guard's gun, and then I heard one of them say something about their targeting system coming back online.”

 

“Sam was flying?” Steve’s frowning. Bucky feels a low, satisfied thrum of solidarity.

 

“Yeah. The rain was lucky, was all. It meant that Sam had to drop down anyway.” But the warm, fuzzy feeling is falling away quick-- Steve is looking at him with his face scrunched up like he’s trying to figure something out. “What?”

 

“That’s-- I mean, I’m glad that didn’t happen, but... That doesn’t explain why you... That week, you were...”

 

“It was just a bad week,” Bucky defends, even though he knows, he _knows_ Steve would be on his side with this. That this might be what he needs. That this might send out the ghosts.

 

“Buck,” Steve says, soft and gentle. And Bucky breaks.

 

“Handlers. Okay? I was-- I rotated, and there was-- one of them hit me in the arm, but in a really specific, like--” Bucky swallows. His throat is thick with mud. “You know how it feels, when you whack your funny bone? Like that, but incapacitating. And he told me that I hadn’t been as _good_ or as _compliant_ as I’d pledged to be, or something-- and then he asked one of the other ones to-- to reboot the system.” Bucky looks Steve straight in the eye. Steve is watching him, his face bare, listening, there. “So I broke an arm, stole a gun, and got rid of all of them.”

 

Bucky clears his throat and scoots farther up the bed, so that the headboard is flat against his back. “Anyways, my arm was back online by the time Sam landed, and we worked pretty well together after that.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, and Bucky almost, almost wants to laugh. “That I wasn’t-- there for that, that I didn’t see it. Jesus, Buck, I’m--”

 

“Hey,” Bucky says, a little uncomfortable, but pleased, in a quiet, secret part of himself, “I needed to work through it, and I did. If I wanted to talk about it then, I would have. I didn’t. But I think you were right, that it won’t feel finished. So, yeah. I’ll hang out here.”

 

“You know I’m here, right?” Steve blurts out. His cheeks are going red, and Bucky finally gives in and laughs at his expense. “I mean,” he says, “I mean, not tomorrow, but usually-- I mean, I’m--”

 

“ _Thanks_ , Steve,” Bucky says, and, while he’s still flustered and trying to articulate himself, nudges him off of the bed.

 

He falls, and says, “Oh, _man_ ,” and sounds so dismayed that Bucky laughs until he cries.

* * *

 

He doesn’t ask Steve to say the night, but the ghosts stay gone. It’s good.

* * *

 

Bucky wakes up to a quiet house, later than he should, but he feels good. He takes his time to shower, to get dressed, to shave, a little. Ties his hair back in a smooth little tail. Looks in the mirror _completely_ without vanity, of course. Definitely isn’t thinking about what Sam will think. Definitely isn’t thinking about twenty-four hours minimum, all on their own.

 

When he gets downstairs, Sam’s on the couch with Bucky’s forgotten book. He’s playing this his lip again, and when Bucky smacks the side of the couch, he jumps.

 

“Asshole,” he laughs, and Bucky only grins, heading toward the kitchen for breakfast. “Hey, you look good,” Sam says, sitting up, and there isn’t a _singly part of Bucky_ that is thrilled by this. “Hot date?”

 

“No, just,” and he realizes, he does, that it’s gonna come up sooner or later, but he’s happy, here, now, so, for just a little while longer, “I just had a good talk with Steve last night. Cathartic, you know?”

 

“Fancy,” Sam says softly, but when Bucky looks over at him, he’s smiling. “I’m heading into town for food a little later. You wanna come?”

 

“I mean,” Bucky says, pretending to think about it. “I _did_ get all dressed up.”

 

The whole day is upsettingly domestic. Bucky makes eggs, and Sam steals some from his plate. They go grocery shopping at the tiny shop at the edge of town and take turns pushing the cart. He grabs Sam’s favorite cereal before he mentions it, and it makes Sam smile so bright, he thinks he might melt from the shine of it.

 

When they get back to the house, Bucky puts things away while Sam hunts down a DVD he was talking about. Bucky lasts through a quarter of the movie before he’s scooting a little closer to an oblivious Sam, and then closer still, and it’s not until he’s sliding a hand down Sam’s back that Sam says, “ _Oh_ ,” soft and pleased, and turns so that Bucky can kiss him properly.

 

They make out on the couch until Bucky calls for a lunch break. Sam sighs, high and theatric. “I didn’t realize I was such hard work,” and Bucky says, “I’ll show you hard work,” and Sam looks delighted.

 

“I was thinking,” Bucky says, while Sam’s mouth is full of sandwich and he can’t interrupt him, “that after lunch, we could go up to your room.”

 

Sam swallows too early and coughs, throwing back water to open up his throat again. “ _My_ room. The room that shares a wall with _Steve’s_ \--” He stops.

 

“Steve,” Bucky says smugly, “Steve who’s out of the house.”

 

“The things I’ll sacrifice for a little bit of charm,” Sam sighs, but Bucky knows for a fact that he looks _interested_.

* * *

 

Bucky goes down on him and Sam pulls the tie out of his hair for something to hold onto. And Bucky-- Bucky thinks about the empty house, and thinks about not hiding, and moans around him until Sam gives it up.

 

Sam kisses him after, and reaches for his pants, but Bucky pulls away.

 

“I want to see the rest of that movie,” he says, just to see Sam’s mouth drop open.

 

Sam sits on the opposite end of the couch until Bucky drags him over.

 

“I’ll end up touching you,” he protests, and Bucky snorts.

 

“I can’t help that I’m irresistible,” Bucky says, and locks his arm around Sam’s waist. By the end of the movie, Sam’s dozing in his lap, and Bucky’s tracing fingers down his back. He doesn’t want to move.

 

He doesn’t.

 

Sam does, volunteers to cook dinner and kisses Bucky when he gets up like it’s unconscious and every part of Bucky _hurts_.

 

He makes chicken and rice pilaf and it’s great but Bucky keeps _looking_ at him across the table, listening to him talk, watching the way his hands move, _god_ , watching the way he _chews_ , and thinking--

 

Thinking that this is a problem.

 

But he’s going to sleep with Sam, and he’s going to make it so, so good, and he’s not going to say a word about it, because he’ll take what he can get, thank you very much.

 

He points to the chicken with his fork.

 

“Too spicy for Steve?” Sam, like he knew he would, laughs.

 

After dinner, Sam loads up a video game, some kind of duel simulator, and Bucky-- he’s looking at him, and Sam’s looking back, and there’s comfort, there, in both of them knowing where the night is heading, and knowing there’s no rush. No one is going to come walking through the door, so when Bucky needs an extra point, he kisses Sam, wet and messy on the cheek, and he’s distracted enough for Bucky to get it.

 

“You’re a _cheat_ ,” Sam says, like he’s amazed by it.

“You’re the one who taught me to play,” Bucky tells him.

“You,” Sam says firmly, “do not _deserve_ this controller.” It’s not a surprise, then, that he tries to take it from him. It _is_ a surprise that he straddles him to do it, trying to reach around the man with the _robotic arm_ to take his prize.

“Nope,” Bucky says smugly, and, “try harder,” and Sam leans too far, and really, it was only a matter of time--

 

Bucky drops the controller to the floor, puts both hands on either side of Sam’s face, and muffles his noise of outrage by pulling him into a kiss. It only takes Sam a second to kiss back, but the thing about kissing Sam is, he commits. His tongue is everything, lips are _everything_ , _teeth_ , when they edge against his lip, soft and deliberate, make him shiver.

 

“ _Sam_ ,” he says, but that’s it, isn’t it? He doesn’t have anything to say, anything he _can_ say, but, “ _Sam_.”

 

“I’ve got you,” Sam says roughly, running his teeth against his neck. “What do you want?”

 

“I-- _everything,_ anything, I--” They should’ve started earlier.

 

“A bed first, huh?” Sam says, and steps away from Bucky’s lap, not, Bucky notices, in a way that has him blushing all over, unaffected.

 

“What do you want?” Sam asks again, when Bucky’s laying on his bed, his legs around Sam’s body, Sam pressing him into the mattress.

 

“ _You_ , obviously,” Bucky bites out, and rolls his hips up to meet Sam’s.

 

“Obviously,” Sam says with a grin, and reaches a hand between them to tug down Bucky’s briefs enough to get a hand around him, but--

 

Bucky grabs his wrist to stop him, and he lets go immediately.

 

“You okay?” he asks, moving back on his heels. Bucky catches him before he gets too far to pull him back in.

 

“I’m good, I am, I’m-- _too_ good?” He is so red, he can feel it spreading. “I don’t want to-- before you’re--”

 

Sam’s eyes flutter closed, and he drops his head to Bucky’s shoulder with a groan. “Fuck. You’re incredible.”

 

“Don’t _compliment_ me, what are you doing?” Bucky says brusquely, fighting back a bashful smile, even as he nips at Sam’s collarbone, so easily within reach. “I’ve only got a few more hours to be as loud as I want, and--”

 

He’s flipped over with a yelp, and then Sam makes very sure all the clothes are gone, with enviable speed.

 

He smacks the backs of Bucky’s thighs, and Bucky gasps.

 

“Spread ‘em,” he says, and Bucky can hear the grin in his voice, can almost see the face he _must_ be making, but he’s spreading his knees wider and arching his back to dip his abdomen towards the bed, and hearing Sam swear under his breath, his fingers press against warm, waiting skin.

 

“Get on with it,” Bucky suggests. Sam does.

 

This time is different. There’s no thrill of almost getting caught, if there ever was to begin with. Instead, they’re moving together, hard and fast and loud, and Sam is telling him how _good_ this is, and _this way, baby_ ? and _god, you feel amazing, Buck_ \-- and Bucky isn’t sure he’s making words, but when Sam pulls his legs a little wider, he thinks he might actually scream.

 

“W--wait,” he says, when he’s close, “wait, I want--”

 

“What, anything,” Sam says, more whimper than word, and, huh, maybe he’s losing it too.

 

Bucky pulls away to turn over, and then brings Sam back towards him, slides him back into place and arches his back this way, instead.

 

“I wanted to see-- to see you,” he says, and rolls his hips to get Sam to move it along. But Sam is looking at him like he’s searching for something and, for the first time, Bucky feels too entirely, starkly naked. “I was worried you weren’t keeping up,” he blurts out, because they do this, right? They say things like this, not things like, _I wanted to see your face when I came, when you came, when we came, together_.

 

“I’m keeping up just fine,” Sam rumbles, and kisses him. He pistons his hips fast and then faster and Bucky loses it on a wail loud enough to drown out the way the headboard keeps threatening to dent in the wall, and Sam--

Sam is with him, slowing his hips when Bucky cries out and gasping out himself, stilling against him.

 

“Buck,” he whimpers, and Bucky is so far gone, he wants to cry.

 

* * *

 

They clean up silently, and when Bucky’s pulling up his underwear, he’s not-- he’s not expecting anything, right? But when Sam says, “You heading out?” casual and soft, he doesn’t believe it for a moment.

 

“I don’t think I’m in the mood for a sleepover,” he says lightly, but he turns around anyway.

 

Sam is lying down, still naked, soft skin on display, and he’s looking at Bucky with a smirk to rival the devil himself.

 

“I feel like,” Sam says, “as far as excuses go, that was a little weak, to be honest.” Bucky rolls his eyes, but he knows that Sam’s noticed that he hasn’t put on any more clothing. “Bucky,” Sam says, “Would you like to stay the night?” And Bucky knows. He _knows_ that it’s only because they won’t get caught, that it’s only for fun, or maybe for convenience, but _god_. He does.

 

“Only if you make me breakfast in the morning,” he sniffs, and Sam laughs, and moves over.

 

Sam falls asleep with his head on his chest, and Bucky can’t sleep, but only because he doesn’t want to miss this. Any of this. All the same, it’s _too_ peaceful. He only makes it an hour or two before Sam’s little sleep noises send him unconscious with a smile.

* * *

 

In the morning, Sam spoons up behind him and fucks into him like that, slow and sweet and sleepy, and it’s the first time, Bucky thinks, that he’s ever come laughing.

 

Sam is still inside of him, still hasn’t come yet, when they hear the front door open. Sam only stills for a moment.

 

“I’m gonna need you,” he says quietly, breathless, “To be _real_ quiet for me.” Bucky whimpers. Everywhere Sam is touching him is oversensitive and _singing_. He wonders, for a tense, terrifying moment, if it’s possible for him to have forgotten how to be quiet. “You need a little help?” Sam teases, bites at Bucky's ear, and brings up his hand to put it over Bucky’s mouth.

 

It’s not that tight-- certainly not tight enough to restrict his breathing-- and Bucky knows it was mostly a joke, but it has him clutching onto Sam’s wrist and rocking back into him, frenzied and desperate.

 

“Oh?” Sam says, but not like he minds. He inches his other hand around Bucky’s body to find him wet, again, already, and Bucky isn’t sure how he’s meant to survive. “You’ve only got a few minutes, baby,” Sam says softly, and every thrust seems to hit a little deeper. “You sure you can make it?” Bucky nods frantically. Moves faster. “You _sure_?”

 

Sam twists his wrist around him and Bucky arches back hard enough the he sees spots. Two more pumps and Sam is gone with him, his breath hitching against Bucky’s shoulder. He rolls his hips lazily against him, but Bucky’s still too shaky to so much as move against him. Sam is saying something to him that he can’t hear. It’s taking everything a minute to come back online again.

 

But Sam’s hand is stroking through his hair and his legs are tangled in his and he’s smiling at him, even if his eyes keep darting towards the door.

 

For him, Bucky thinks, just about anything.

 

He throws his legs over the side of the bed and grabs the first pair of pants he finds, and uses Sam’s shirt to dry off his chest and stomach, staring at Sam with a smile to dare him to argue. The other he’s still throwing on when he opens the door.

 

* * *

 

It’s inevitable that they get found out, really. The only surprise is that it’s taken so long.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to Sam, and hopes that he gets it, but Sam only looks a little sheepish, not angry, and hopefully, Bucky isn’t too ashamed to admit, not ready to end whatever this is.

 

Steve “I-Know-What-Love-Bites-Look-Like-Bucky-Dear- _God_ ” Rogers is sitting at the head of their round dining table-- that shouldn’t even _have_ a head, Jesus-- and staring down the both of them, before either have had so much of a lick of coffee.

 

Or a shower. But Bucky’s not gonna say that, because Steve already looks set to burst.

 

“We didn’t say anything because it doesn’t affect team dynamics, but it also isn’t anything serious,” Sam says with a sigh. Steve, unfathomably, decides to turn to Bucky after that.

 

“Buck?”

 

“I’m letting _him_ do this,” Bucky mumbles, and stands, heading for the coffeemaker. He completely believes in Sam’s ability to handle this with minimal fall out. He doesn’t, however, completely believe that Steve would miss whatever was going on with him. They’re talking in low voices, anyway, like adults, the way adults _should_ talk about things, the way _Bucky_ should be able to process things. Instead, Bucky’s closing his eyes and sipping at his coffee and ignoring as much as he can.

 

“--Bucky!” He opens his eyes.

 

“What?”

 

Sam’s in front of him, his arms crossed, looking tired enough that Bucky hands over his own mug of coffee. Sam smiles his thanks and takes a sip before pointing back towards Steve at the table.

 

Sam sighs. “Tell steve it was nothing. He doesn’t believe me.”

 

“I,” and Bucky? Bucky, in a new stroke of luck, has a hand that won’t stop shaking. He grins at Sam anyway. It feels like paper, starts to crumple at the edges. “I wanted you to fuck me, and then I wanted you to leave. It was casual.” He can’t make it _stop_ , his hand. Sam tries to hand back the coffee, but he can’t take it. He shakes his head. His hands are pressed behind him, so

neither of them see it.

 

“ _See_ ,” Sam says, a little smugly. He motions Steve towards Bucky. “A little crass, but.”

 

“Fine,” Steve says, but it isn’t. It isn’t. It is in fact possible that Bucky has made a terrible, stupid mistake.

 

“Bucky?” Steve says, standing up and moving towards him. There’s a fault line between his eyebrows. Bucky can only imagine the kind of tremors that would result if he talked about this. If he told Steve--

 

“Bad coffee,” he says, and makes to move past him, but Steve catches his right arm.

 

Feels it shaking.

 

“Woah,” he says, and blinks. Bucky has nothing to say. Steve, though. Steve nods, and says, “Go shower, I’m taking you out to breakfast,” and it’s not a great idea, probably risky, but-- _it was nothing_ , past tense and unremarkable, and Bucky says, “Yeah, sure, okay, that sounds great,” and he’s _miserable._

 

* * *

 

The part of America they’re in much not care much for the news, because the waitress at the diner in the middle of town smiles at both of them and takes their orders without batting an eye. It’s good, Bucky supposes. To deal with that on top of--

 

He snorts. Steve looks up at him from his coffee, on eyebrow raised.

 

“I’m a mess,” Bucky tells him frankly. “I’m usually fine, but, even then--”

 

“Having feelings for Sam doesn’t make you a mess,” Steve says gently, and Bucky wants to scream.

 

“I don’t-- it’s not-- what are you _saying_ , we’re only... It’s just _sex_ , Steve!” he snarls, just to see him blush. But Steve is, as ever, unflappable where it counts, and only raises up his hands.

 

“In the fourth grade,” Steve says, slowly putting his cup down, “You took Maggie Smith to the park and proposed to her in front of all her friends, literally just because she shared her jelly beans with you at the back of the class two days beforehand.”

 

“ _I_ don’t remember that,” Bucky sniffs. He remembers them being peppermints.

 

“When you were seventeen, you took Jenny Hewitt skating, and kissed her in the park, and gushed about it for _three weeks_ before you found her making out with Phillip Rice in an alley behind where you worked.”

 

“I,” Bucky says, ready to be offended, but, yeah, that’s-- that sounds... accurate.

 

“One kiss,” Steve says, “and you cried about it-- were a _mess_ about it-- for a solid month, until the next girl came along.” Steve sips his coffee like a smug asshole, and Bucky does _not_ see the point.

 

“What are you trying to say?” he demands. “That everyone I dated was replaceable anyway, so why should I care? Because let me tell you, pal, that’s--”

 

“I’m saying _that_ you dated,” Steve says, closing his eyes-- to refrain, Bucky notices, from rolling them. “James Buchanan Barnes, there is nothing casual about you. You were probably gone on Sam the minute he kissed you.”

 

“How do you know _I_ didn’t kiss _him_?”

 

Steve opens his mouth and narrows his eyes. “When you were _fif_ teen,” and Bucky throws sugar packets at him until he _stops_.

 

They’re quiet through their food. It’s Bucky who says, twisting a heavily seasoned fry through the air, “You might. Not be wrong.” If Steve’s smile is one part _kind_ and _supportive_ it’s at least two parts vindicated.

 

“So what’re you gonna do about it?”

“Whatever he wants,” Bucky says, but it’s an easy out, and he feels his stomach plunging. Sam won’t want to talk about this, but he can do that, too. He has to be able to do that, too.

 

Steve, with his freaky _I don’t have x-ray vision, Bucky, stop reading those comics_ , says, “What do _you_ want? And don’t throw it all on him.”

 

Bucky says, “Him,” and, “Whatever I can get.”

 

For a minute, Steve looks sadder than he does. He doesn’t want that. He turns back to his plate.

 

* * *

 

Steve’s mission was a success. They talk about it, all three of them, when he and Bucky get back to the house, scattered around the living room.

 

Sam, Bucky notices, looks calm, and smiles when he catches Bucky’s eye, but what else should he expect from _nothing_ , honestly.

 

“Hill’s team is getting as much information from them as they can,” Steve says. This is what it takes for Sam to react.

 

“Why does that sound like torture?”

 

“It’s not,” Steve assures him. “Besides-- Natasha’s reputation in particular precedes her. I saw her walk into a room, hand one of them a pad and pen, and as soon as she said write, they were off.” Steve shrugs. “They don’t have anything to protect, anymore.”

 

“Would my presence help at all?” Bucky asks. _He_ has a reputation.

 

“I can ask them, if you want, but because they’re working with other government agencies, that might... get a little messy.”  

 

“What does this mean for _us_?” Sam asks. “Are we still waiting here for the next marching orders? Do I have time to go home and water my plants? What?”

 

Bucky takes a deep, long breath, because he isn’t going to pass out, here. His heart might be, god, rabbiting away, and his stomach might feel like the inner workings of a roller coaster, but--

 

“You want to go back to D.C.?” he blurts out, his voice at least an octave higher than it should be. Sam doesn’t notice. Sam _never_ notices--

 

“Well, yeah, if Maria’s team can do what she thinks they can? I’m ready for a little more normal,” Sam says softly, and Bucky looks at him, and thinks that he might be tired, too.

“I, personally,” he says, and tries to talk softer to cover the panic, “was thinking Moscow.”

 

“You are _not_ going back to Russia,” Steve barks, but Bucky is here to _sell it_.

 

“I’m good with the language, know the geography-- and a little cold might do me good.” He grins. No one else is laughing. “Anyway,” he says, “I’m gonna go for a run.”

 

“You want some company?” Sam asks. Bucky stands up so fast, he’s almost dizzy.

 

“No, thanks,” he says, and he can’t really look him in the eye to say it.

* * *

 

Old habits die hard, is Bucky’s excuse. His excuse for why he’s loitering on the stairs, spying, listening to them speak.

 

“I guess he’s taking having it come out a little harder than expected,” Sam is saying, quiet and thoughtful. “I mean-- it’s just you. I figured he’d be alright.”

 

“From the sound of things, _you_ were the one who wanted to keep it secret,” Steve says, and, oh, god, he sounds a little mean. Don’t do that. “Maybe he’s just worried he’s upset you.” Sam hums.

 

“Mostly I just didn’t want to make things weird. It’s not like either of us are living a life where something more than that makes sense, you know? I figured, the simpler we kept it, the better.”

 

“Maybe you two should talk about it again. It sounds like some wires got crossed somewhere.”

 

“Alright, Dr. Phil,” Sam snorts, and Bucky remembers Phil Rice with his hands on Jenny’s hips, only Phil is someone _living a life that makes sense_ , Phil is D.C., Phil is all of the messy things in Bucky’s head, and Bucky walks quietly down the stairs and out the front door and _sprints_ until he’s worn a new path through the prairie grass.

 

When he comes back inside, his thighs hurt and his head hurts and he’s hungry. He’s been lying in a field for the better part of the day, and the sun is setting, and there are bug-bites on his arm and the back of his neck, but, inexplicably, he feels better. It’s what he needed, he thinks. To be reminded what it’s like to be alone.

 

“Hey, man,” Sam says when he walks in. He’s at the sink, and Bucky can hear the TV on in the next room. “Weren’t sure when you were coming back, but there’s food in the oven if you want it.”

 

Sam is looking at him like he did the week of That Mission, like he isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to stay, what he’s allowed to say out loud, and Bucky could laugh. No wonder this is temporary, if every time he’s around him--

 

“Have--” He has to clear his throat to get it to work properly. “Have you eaten?”

 

“Nah, but I had a late lunch. _You_ , on the other hand, skipped it.” There’s a brief moment of hesitation, but he puts his hands on Bucky’s shoulders and Bucky wills himself not to flinch at it. Not to turn around and--

 

Steve is the next room over. He doesn’t have much of a view.

 

When Sam walks him up to the table, Bucky turns around before he can move away, and pulls his mouth up to his with a hand under his chin. Sam kisses him back, for a moment, and then pulls away, blinking slowly. He smiles.

 

“Sit,” he says, “Down. I’m not having you pass out because you decided food wasn’t for you today.”

 

“I had a big breakfast,” Bucky protests, but he’s warm all over. Sam pushes him into a chair and pulls out a foil wrapped dish and drops it in front of him.

 

“Eat,” he says, and makes to move away. Bucky catches his hand.

 

“Sit with me.”

 

Sam sits next to him, close enough that their knees touch every time he moves a little bit forward to make a point. When the TV’s switched off, Steve comes wandering in to find them. Bucky is already standing with his dish, moving towards the sink, but even when Steve’s eyes meet his and his eyebrows go up, he can’t quite stop smiling.

 

They play video games, the three of them, and in a triumph of poetic justice, Steve grabs Sam’s controller and Bucky wraps his arms around Sam’s waist and Sam _loses_ . He calls it _outrageous_ and a _travesty_ , _this is why you don’t teach old dogs new tricks_ , but he hasn’t noticed that Bucky still has an arm around him, and that he’s still sitting close enough that their legs, from hip to ankle, are touching.

* * *

Bucky isn’t going to go, isn’t going to take that chance, but it’s one in the morning and he’s staring up at the ceiling and he can’t stop wondering what it would be like. To be a part of the normal that Sam is returning to. To be with him, _really_ be with him, in D.C.A never-ending twenty-four hours.

 

So he doesn’t mean to go, but then he’s in front of Sam’s door, and there’s a light on, and he’s knocking, lightly, just in case this is a mistake, just in case--

 

Sam opens the door with glasses on. Big, old-fashioned wire frames with a slightly wider tortoise shell bar on top of each arch. He looks surprised to see him, and his eyes look even bigger when he widens them behind his glasses, when they crinkle up into a smile.

 

“I wasn’t expecting company,” Sam says.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be awake.”

“I was reading.” Sam blinks. “Why are you?”

“D.C.,” Bucky tells him honestly, and taps Sam on the chest until he steps back into his room, Bucky behind him.

 

Bucky closes the door and leans up against it. Sam looks confused.

 

“What about D.C.?”

 

“You said you wanted to go back.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I was thinking about,” Bucky says slowly, walking into the room, “how much I’d miss this.” Sam smirks at him.

 

“I _am_ a tough act to follow.” He _sashays_ up to Bucky and puts his hands on Bucky’s hips, and kisses him so hard and so deep that Bucky’s head is spinning by the time he pulls away.

 

But there’s a line between his eyebrows, and his eyes go from Bucky’s left to right, confused and concerned.

 

“This is why you came by, right?” he asks. And he’s asking. He’s genuinely, curiously asking, like if Bucky gave a different reason, or if Bucky pulled away, he’d still be smiling at him, still be okay, still be ready to pull him back in with whatever he wants.

 

He _wants_ Sam to need him, the way he needs Sam .

 

He can’t have that.

 

Instead, he kisses Sam like he’s greedy for it, hungry for the air out of Sam’s lungs, for the feeling of Sam’s fingers tangled and pulling in his hair. He picks him up with a groan and walks him over to his bed, drops him down and doesn’t let him bounce back up before he’s pressing into him, holding him down with his hips and his mouth and his hands.

 

Sam pulls away again, and he lets him go with a petulant bite at his lip to move his mouth down his chest instead, sucking marks into his collarbone, over his heart.

 

“Okay,” Sam gasps, and writhes against him when Bucky buries his teeth around a nipple. “You’re going to have to use-- your words with me, I-- I feel like we were weird, today and-- and I don’t want that, if this is, if this is weird, I--”

 

Bucky sits up and tugs the rest of their clothes out of the way before sliding back up Sam’s body. He smiles at him. He can feel, somewhere, tomorrow, maybe, a week away, how badly this is going to hurt.

 

“We aren’t weird,” he says. “I told you, already, I just-- I want _you_ , and anything you can give me.”

 

“So we’re okay,” Sam presses. Bucky, gingerly, lifts Sam’s glasses from his face, folds them, and rolls across the bed to drop them on his bedside table-- right next to his book, abandoned and then missing from the living room.

 

“You feathered _crook_ ,” Bucky says, like he actually minds.

 

“Sharing is caring, Barnes,” Sam says, and grins. When Bucky pounces on him, he laughs.

  


They make quick work of it. Sam says “ _Fuck_ , baby, _yes_ ,” when Bucky works him open, kissing him every time his whimpers get too loud. He says “How do you want it?” like he isn’t already throwing his head back and holding his knees wide with his hands, his lip pressed bloodless between his teeth when Bucky presses into him.

 

He fucks Sam slow and deep and Sam gasps, “ _Faster,_ I need--” and Bucky stills, and Bucky stops. He’s burning up, all over. Sam is--

 

“ _What_ ,” Sam groans, his eyes shut tight, “What are you, what is it, why--”

 

“I’ve got you,” Bucky promises, pleads, swears, and pulls Sam’s hands from where they’ve migrated, down his shoulders and into his hair. He laces their fingers together and presses Sam’s arms up, their hands tight. “I’ve got-- let me--please--”

 

Sam, under him, covered with a light sheen of sweat, his eyes closed, his mouth falling open when Bucky juts his hips up and in. Sam, with his eyes fluttering open.

 

Sam gasps, and his eyebrows slant together, accusatory and immediate.

 

“How long have you been looking at me like _that_?!”

 

Bucky turns his face away, hides it in his own shoulder, says, quick and desperate, “If you’re still this chatty, I’m doing something wrong,” and his voice comes out high, and wrong, but it’s okay-- his hips are moving faster, and Sam is letting out choked little sounds twice a minute, three times a minute, and Bucky kisses him, because Sam might be in for a penny, but god, Bucky’s in for the whole damn bank.

 

Sam pulls away, but the last thing on Bucky’s lip is his tongue, and he says, “You gonna come for me, or what?” and he presses their foreheads together and-- Bucky kisses him again, so he doesn’t have to look at him, when he does.

 

He gives himself ten slow breaths. Ten breaths to feels Sam’s fingers tracing up and down his back. Ten breaths, matched up to his. Ten breaths, and then he’s pulling out and rolling over, and dropping a casual, careless kiss on Sam’s forehead.

 

“Goodnight,” he says, cleaning himself up quick and disposing of the evidence.

 

“You’re joking,” Sam growls, but Bucky ducks his hands when he reaches for him. “We’ve already been caught!”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “well.” He smiles at Sam when he puts his t-shirt on, and turns to the wall so he doesn’t have to. Christ, he’s getting melancholy in his old age.

 

“We’re gonna have to talk,” Sam says seriously, and he’s still a beautiful, sticky-looking mess and Bucky wants to clean him off with his _mouth_. As if sensing weakness, Sam licks his lips. “Stay.”

 

But Bucky shakes his head. Smiles. “You never made me breakfast.”

 

And for the first time, he leaves.

* * *

 

It’s not that Bucky’s expecting him to be gone in the morning, but when he wakes up, it already feels like he is. He goes through the motions, anyway, follows his routine. When he’s brushing his teeth, he notices the mark on his Adam’s apple, round and red. There are more when he lifts his his shirt, in different degrees of fading. They’ll all be gone, eventually.

 

He digs his fingers into the one on his hip. Asks it to stay.

* * *

 

“Hey,” Sam says when he gets downstairs. There are toast and eggs and bacon, all laid out in a spread on the counter. Sam’s standing opposite with his arms braced, like he’s trying to anchor himself into place. When Bucky gets downstairs, he’s smiling like he’s been waiting for him. “Perfect timing. I made you breakfast.”

 

“Did you,” Bucky says. He feels a little ill.

 

“Yeah,” Sam says, and hands him a plate. “Dig in. Steve’s out for a run. I was thinking, while he was out--”

 

“Now?” Bucky says, and nods towards the stairs. He knows better, but-- the easy, fun, getting-Sam-naked way out sounds so, _so_ much better than whatever _this_ is going to be. Still-- seeing Sam press his lips away from a smile, flustered from insinuation, might almost be worth it. “ _Really_? I’ve had my tongue in your--”

 

“We don’t need a rehash!” Sam yelps, and takes his own plate, piled evenly, to the table. Bucky takes a glum moment to think about his escape routes, and then follows.

 

“So,” Sam says, when Bucky’s three bites in-- and, really, he’d hoped for more silence, because it’s gonna suck if he has to run out of here without at least being fed. “I don’t know, um. How to ask this? But I don’t want you to think I’m accusing you of something, or reading too much into something, if it’s not even there in the first place and I’m just unconsciously projecting, or something, but-- Bucky, I have to ask.” He’s looking at Bucky pleadingly, like he wants the question asked and answered without having to actually say it out loud. Bucky knows the feeling. He takes pity, and throws himself onto the fire.

 

“I’ve got, I’ve, you’re,” he says, and then, “Feelings, for you.”

 

There’s a moment-- Sam’s eyes go soft, and he starts to smile, but then those three _stupid_ fucking words make their way out of Bucky’s mouth and--

 

Sam says, “Oh-- shit.”

 

He might also say, “Bucky, _wait_!” but Bucky can’t hear him. By that point, he’s already stealing Steve’s car.

* * *

 

The car is stolen _anyway_ , so, really, Steve’s only got _half_ a reason to be standing there, sanctimonious and sweaty, glaring and Bucky outside of the only coffee shop in town.

 

“ _Starbucks_ ,” Steve pants, glaring. His clothes look like he’s been dumped in a lake. Really-- it’s only about a half hour’s drive into town. He’s been slacking.

“I wanted coffee,” Bucky says, sipping at his latte. “Don’t judge.”

 

Steve sits down opposite him, snatches it out of his hand, and drains the rest of it in a few lousy sips.

 

“Almost,” Steve pants, “forty miles.”

 

Bucky does the math.

 

He may have been speeding.

 

He gets Steve his own coffee and about a liter of water and, when Steve’s staring at him, his shirt starting to dry in the sun, he tells him what happened. More or less. He may put more words into his own mouth than actually _left_ it.

 

“You told him all that?” Steve says, his eyes shining like a kid facing a Disney movie for the first time. “And then what’d he say?”

 

“Oh, shit,” Bucky says, in a nasal, unkind mimicry of Sam’s voice. And then, “Oh, shit,” again, because he didn’t like how it sounded the first time, and, anyway, Sam’s voice is lovely and deep and nice and Bucky is a liar.

 

“That’s-- what else?” Steve demands.

 

“Well, I may have, ah,” Bucky says, “I maybe exaggerated, a little bit, here. So.” He fidgets.

 

Steve gives a heavy, blustering sigh. “How much is a little bit?”

 

“I told him I had feelings for him, and he said ‘oh shit,’ and I left!”

 

“You--” Steve puts a hand over his mouth. He rests his elbow on the table. He pulls back to look Bucky over. “Are you in love with him? Is what you’re saying to me... that you’re in love with him?” Bucky’s mouth falls open.

 

“I will drive off and _leave_ you here--”

 

“Because at this point, you’re being theatrical and embarrassing and should probably just _talk_ to him, because--”

 

“He’s leaving for D.C.,” Bucky says, because that’s what they’ve been getting to really. He sighs and scrubs his hands through his hair. “I’d say anything-- _do_ anything-- to get him to stay, but he was right, you know? He wants his life back. I just, I wish...”

 

Steve drops his hand from his face and reaches towards Bucky. “What you _need_ is--”

 

“This is touching,” says a temporary brunette with terrible timing. “Did you two finally get together?”

 

Bucky and Steve rip their hands away from each other like their toxic, and turn, in tandem, to glare at Natasha.

 

“Easy, boys,” she says, smiling. “I come bearing gifts. Or, more specifically, your walking papers. Anyone need a lift?”

* * *

 

The breakfast spread is still out-- “He made you _breakfast_?” Steve hisses, when they walk through the door. “I think I might be on his side, Buck.”-- and Natasha naws on a strip of bacon while they settle onto the couch, Sam, a minute late, with a small suitcase already packed.

 

“They called ahead,” he tells Steve, when he sees him looking at it.

 

When he catches Bucky’s eye, he looks like he wants to say something. Bucky’s glad he holds off.

 

“Here’s the deal,” Natasha says, handing out a folder to each of them. “You’ve got an identity there, if you want it. You will still be on call, but you will be able to do so from the location of your choosing.  I have, of course, included a list of suggestions. It’s a pretty clean deal, guys,” she says, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. Bucky sees Steve twitch, and Natasha smirk, and something in him relaxes, believes in this a little more. “It’s not entirely legal,” she admits happily, “basically below board, but it’ll hold up.”

 

“And if I wanted to go back to D.C.?” Sam asks quietly. Natasha grins at him.

 

“I’ve already combed through your house. Totally safe. I also swung by your place of employment. They’re looking forward to hearing your undoubtedly _very_ good excuse.”

 

“Nice,” Sam says, grinning back, and high fives her.

 

Bucky knows already that he will go with Steve, and will see Sam if and when they’re called together, and it will be fine-- because Sam looks happy, to be going home, and he--

 

“Thanks, Natasha,” he says, and walks away. Upstairs to a room that won’t be his much longer.

 

Sam’s left his book on his bed.

 

It’s really shitty, as far as goodbyes go.

* * *

 

Someone knocks at his door.

 

He’s reading, but at this point, it’s mostly because he’s tired of leaving things unfinished, so he says, “Come in,” and Sam does.

 

“Hey,” he says. He looks nervous. He’s got a sweater on. Bucky assumes he’s flying commercial. “Got a minute.”

 

“Several,” Bucky says, and waves him in.

 

“Listen,” Sam says, as soon as the door closes. “I wanted to apologize. I reacted kind of--”

 

“You’re fine,” Bucky assures him, closing his eyes. “I knew that I wasn’t part of-- real life, for you, and now you get to-- so there’s no point in--” He growls under his breath. Sam is still standing by the door, looking increasingly concerned by the moment.

 

“I’m trying to be graceful, and I’m really _bad_ at it. Look. I didn’t think that you’d-- _fuck_ , like me back, okay? I just needed to say it out loud. So, have a good flight.” He turns back to his book. Suddenly, he can’t remember how to read.

 

“You really thought I wouldn’t want to talk about this?” Sam asks, and, _no_ , he sounds sad. Bucky is trying so, so hard to make sense of the words on the page, so he hums in response to Sam’s question like he’s paying attention. “Bucky--” Sam sits down on the edge of Bucky’s bed. Bucky is two feet away, and he can still feel him like gravity.

 

“First of all, there is nothing wrong with-- no. First of all, I reacted poorly. I was surprised, I didn’t think you’d--” Sam gives a frustrated sigh. “I wasn’t thinking of you like that. Not that I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, I just-- I didn’t. And then you said-- that, and it startled me and I-- I reacted poorly, and I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t apologize,” Bucky mutters, but Sam ignores him.

 

“Second, I’ve had a really good time with you. And I don’t just mean...” Bucky chances a glance up. Sam’s eyes are tracing his pillow, and there’s a smile there that’s doubling as a blush. It’s incredibly satisfying. “I like spending time with you. You’re not some... hardship to endure. You’re my friend. And third...”

 

He looks at Bucky. Bucky’s finally looking back. He watches Sam run his tongue over his bottom lip. He thinks about everything he hasn’t said.

“Third?” he asks.

 

Sam hesitates, and then shakes his head. Whatever was there, in that moment, is gone now. “I think the second covered it. I probably didn’t need to number it at all. Got a little ambitious, there.”

 

He stands up and walks towards the door. Bucky is watching for-- something. He isn’t sure what.

 

Sam turns back with his hand on the doorknob.

 

“Um. How long,” he says, “And I swear I’m not fishing, but how long has this been, uh, an issue, for you?”

 

Bucky feels himself light up like a circus tent and puts his book over his face, for all the good it’ll do him. He drops back onto his bed and groans.

 

“Steve has my number, on that one.”

 

“ _Steve_ ,” Sam repeats, like he’s trying to work it out.

 

“You _kissed me_ ,” Bucky hisses, and blusters on when Sam has nothing to say about _that,_ “after basically _daring_ me to take you to bed--”

 

“You asked!” Sam protests.

 

“-- and then it was _great_ and then you _left_ , and--”

 

“ _I_ asked,” Sam cries, “ _I asked_ if it was okay with you, if it was just sex, and you said _yes_.”

“I _lied_.”

 

He sits up. His face feels red and raw and his eyes feel a little wet but he _quits_.

 

“I lied. I’m sorry. Steve said I’ve never done anything casual in my life, and I feel like he’s probably right, I... You’re the first person I’ve been with in... a while, the first man, probably ever, and that’s not a _reason_ , it’s just-- You’re the first person I’ve wanted, like that. It just turns out I don’t know how to want things only a little.”

 

Sam’s watching him with round eyes, but he hasn’t run screaming, so that makes him a pretty good friend, Bucky figures.

 

“What does that mean?” Sam asks, and Bucky laughs.

 

“It means that I didn’t want to have really great sex, and then say goodnight and leave.” Bucky can’t look at him, so he looks at the ceiling, and the carpet, and, hell, the _air_ . “I wanted to take you out to dinner, and then make you breakfast the next morning.” He looks at his lap. “I wanted to hold your _hand_.”

 

“ _You_ ,” Sam accuses, “wanted to old-school romance me.”

 

Bucky’s laugh comes out wet and _embarrassing._ “I do-- did. Do.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and tries to figure out how to rub at his eyes without making it look like he’s having a problem.

 

“Bucky,” Sam says, and he glances over at him. “ _Okay_.”

 

Bucky frowns. “Yes, I’m fine? What are you trying to--” _Oh_ . “ _Oh_!”

 

“Or I could just,” Sam says awkwardly, because Bucky is _slow_ and _stupid_ and an _embarrassment_ , “my flight’s in an hour, so, D.C.! Right.” He’s opening the door and stepping through it and Bucky’s standing up and moving so fast his balance betrays him.

 

“Sam!” he says, and Sam turns around.

 

“Or I could,” Sam says, at the same time, and then Bucky’s colliding into him and sending them both against the wall to the side of the door. Bucky, personally, has very good memories of this wall, but it’s not a memory that’s smiling at him, so small and so soft.

 

“Or I could,” Sam tries again, “wait, a little while. See what else this town has to offer before heading back home.”

 

“You should do that,” Bucky says firmly. Sam’s smile gets brighter, for a moment, before he pushes it away.

 

“I’m not, I’m starting a little bit behind you. You know that, right?”

 

“Yes,” he says, “I do, I just-- if you want to give it a try, I’m--”

 

“Kiss me now,” Sam suggests, and Bucky does, deep and slow and dirty and everything he’s wanted since Sam, fuck, _smiled_ at him. He doesn’t pull away until Sam slides his hands down into his back pocket, and pulls him in with a heavy grip.

 

“No!” He _doesn’t_ squeak. “No you _don’t_ , we’re doing this my way, Wilson, you gotta buy me dinner, first.”

 

“But I already made you breakfast,” Sam points out, and squeezes with a grin. “How about we do the whole thing backwards?”

 

Bucky-- Bucky can see that going very, very well, but he’s done that. _They’ve_ done that. What they _haven’t_ done is enough of the rest. He puts his hands on either side of Sam’s jaw and pulls him in for a short, soft kiss.

 

“Can’t,” he says when he pulls away, searching Sam’s eyes for any sign of trepidation. “You’re too important.”

 

Sam _blushes_.

 

“If I had known you were such a _sweet-_ talker,” he complains when Bucky pulls away, shoving him towards the door. “Maybe I would’ve caught on a little quicker.”

 

Bucky catches him by the hand before he gets too far. He’s, this is, it’s too much. Too bright. He’s not sure what to do with it, how not to break it. Obviously _old_ Bucky hadn’t been that hot with it either-- there wasn’t a wedding ring with James Barnes’s dog tags.

 

“It’ll be worth it,” he blurts out, half promise to himself, half bartering chip. “I’ll make it, I’ll make it worth it. Ahem.”

 

Sam softens. He tugs Bucky in by the hand until they’re against each other, again, here, in the hallway, where Steve and Natasha and god could see them, if any were so inclined.

 

“ _You’re_ worth it,” he says, and Bucky swears it’s supposed to be cheesy, but he can’t see where. “I never doubted that for a moment.”

 

He kisses Bucky on the cheek, just shy of his mouth, and pulls away, calling downstairs for _Natasha, about that flight_ , and Bucky’s just. Bucky’s still warm all over. He can’t really feel 80% of his body and Sam’s gone, but he’s not as gone as Bucky is.

 

**Author's Note:**

> apparently this is continuation of a theme: bucky Catches Feelings™ and Sam has a Good Time but to be fair sam has a better time here than in close quarters ANYWAY
> 
> thanks 4 reading next time i'm making bucky cry it's time to stop beating around the bush
> 
>  
> 
> [i'm here](http://thisurlisblank.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> pps please forgive wonky formatting and/or typos (but lemme know) it's 3 am i hope you enjoyed this 14k long feelings-sex scene from _hell_


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